


What Foolish Things

by ijemanja



Category: A Ladies' Guide to Collecting Mermaid Love Songs - Aimee Picchi
Genre: Drabble Sequence, F/F, Future Fic, Pining, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9002134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijemanja/pseuds/ijemanja
Summary: What foolish things would ladies do, if all that love was let loose?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).



Arms reached for her from the depths. They welcomed her as she slipped into the water and then - and then - she woke up.

Miss Holst lay blinking at the early sunlight edging around the curtain. A glint off smooth glass, swirling with green and gold, drew her eye where it lay beside her pillow. 

She rose and opened the curtain.

The dream faded quickly, as such dreams always did, leaving only a lingering salty aftertaste on her tongue. And that, too, was quickly overcome with breakfast.

No more dreaming; she had an appointment to keep this morning at the wharf.

 

*

 

Lastly, before stepping out the door, she secured her padded reticule at her waist, the shimmering orb safe inside as always. This, her most essential item of equipment.

The ladies she met on the dock appeared to be well prepared at least, each one bearing a likely looking basket and an eager countenance. As Miss Holst led them to the boat the young Misses Parkinson and Fields followed, trilling at the prospect of collecting for themselves their first mermaid songs.

Miss Holst thought she could scarcely remember that kind of enthusiasm.

Her hand drifted to her waist.

_ Yes, I remember. _

 

*

 

Mrs Fields was an old acquaintance.

_ "Since reading your pamphlet, Miss Holst, my Agnes and her friend talk of nothing else. Do say you will take them under your wing. They are so flighty and particular, these girls today." _

Flighty and particular wasn't an encouraging combination to Miss Holst's mind. It might be a challenge delivering them back to their mothers at the end of the day. But such was the risk all enthusiasts took in pursuit of knowledge and beauty. 

"Fine technique, Miss Fields, you've been practicing. Steady on the bellows, Miss Parkinson. Here, ladies. Here they come, now."

 

*

 

With their basket holding several orbs already, they paused for lunch. The young ladies grew quite morose as the mermaids - who soon lost interest without the lure of the bellows and pipe - swam away.

Recognising the signs, Miss Holst encouraged a more diligent application to their meal.

Miss Parkinson dutifully ate another hard-boiled egg. 

Miss Fields peeled herself an orange, so busy watching the waves for the glimmer of scales she cut her finger on the knife. She nursed her bandaged finger while Miss Parkinson took up the knife and orange and fed them to Miss Fields slice by slice.

 

*

 

"See, ladies, the type 2 is often duller than the other classes, but the song itself may still be a worthy addition to any collection."

The ladies were too busy holding each other and weeping to attend the lesson. 

It had been like this all day. Flighty and particular, indeed. Miss Holst was near despair - no appreciation for the scientific process.

_ Of course, you would like them, _ Miss Holst thought, idly tugging her belt.  _ But would you like to meet them? Today? _

Bellows blew, the glass swelled, the mermaids came, and she looked - never ceased looking - for one particular face.

 

*

 

"She was so lovely." Miss Fields cradled her newest song encased in glass. 

"I feel as if they understand me," Miss Parkinson said. "In the stories, sailors lash themselves to the mast. I don't know why." 

"If it comes to that," said Miss Holst, "I've brought plenty of rope."

"What do you think, Miss Holst?" Miss Fields held the orb aloft.

"Type 3, silver and mauve. A decent example of the class."

Miss Fields sighed.

"She sang it for you, dear," whispered Miss Parkinson.

In the end, Miss Holst did the only sensible thing, and tethered them to each other.

 

*

 

A mermaid, beguiling, held out her hand, singing - 

Miss Fields bent towards the water, tempted -

Miss Parkinson caught her round the waist, perhaps to join her or restrain her, and then -

Miss Holst looked up in time to see the kiss they shared, saltwater dripping from the lips of one to the other.

"Dear," Miss Parkinson murmured, as the mermaid's song disappeared in the fresh breeze.

"Oh, did we miss it?" Miss Fields' voice was as full of longing as the tides. 

"No, here it is." Miss Holst finished clamping off the orb. "All is just as it should be."

 

*

 

Back on land they were met by the carriage Miss Parkinson's father had sent.

"Give my regards to your mother, Miss Fields," said Miss Holst, and with a sigh of some relief stepped back and watched them go.

Miss Parkinson climbed in first, then reached through the open door for Miss Fields, taking her by the arms and drawing her in. For a moment, their faces caught in profile were bright, shining and eager, one a mirror of the other, and then both disappeared and the door swung shut on a high laugh and a frothy swirl of petticoat hems.

 

*

 

At the gate of her little cottage on the bluff Miss Holst alighted from her bicycle and paused, turning to look over the grey waves far below. 

She had lived with the sea at her doorstep for so long now she couldn't imagine making her home anywhere else. It happened that way - a thing so dearly loved naturally became a part of oneself. 

She wondered if the young ladies would feel the same after today, saltwater in their blood. Perhaps not. They had found what they were wanting, after all, and it could be found readily enough on dry land.

 

*

 

She curled under the covers, her hair brushed out and spread across the pillow. Swirling aquamarine with flickers of fire, the orb pressed to her ear hummed its mournful melody. 

Sometimes she thought the familiar refrain took on a different air - at times hopeful, or secretive, or a touch playful. Sometimes the tones blossomed with heat and the glass warmed to her caresses and it spread - oh how it spread and filled her to overflowing.

Irrational notions, these; sound waves imprinted in glass cannot be changed by whim or fancy.

Still she listened. And, closing her eyes, Miss Holst dreamed.


End file.
